


The Game

by Alexandria356



Series: The Game [1]
Category: Lost
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexandria356/pseuds/Alexandria356
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sawyer, if you weren't prepared to do it, you shouldn't have put it up as stakes."</p><p>A game of poker goes awry. Beta by Zelda Zee, for which many thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

> Set before Confidence Man. This is the first part of the three part series The Game

The Game

 

It's late. The other players have drifted away from the embers of the fire and the empty bottles, leaving Jack and Sawyer to fight to the very last hand of poker. Jack had talked about leaving an hour or so ago, but then Sawyer produced some miniature bottles of scotch, and goaded him to stay a little longer. Drinking two of the bottles for every one he gives Jack, Sawyer's been losing badly, and finally Jack starts to gather the cards together. Sawyer grabs his wrist, squinting at him with drunken intensity.

"One more game."

Jack pulls his hand free. He's won all of Sawyer's pathetic stash, and now he just wants to go to sleep.

"You don't have anything left to bet with."

Sawyer gazes around at the dark night, and down at himself. His clothes are probably the only things he has to his name now. He frowns in concentration, as if he can conjure something up out of nothing.

He lifts his head, a secretive smile on his face.

"A fuck."

Jack looks at him in disgust.

"You can't bet with someone else's body. Even if you could find anybody whose morals were that low."

"I mean me."

It takes Jack a moment to understand.

"It has to be something I want." He says, enunciating carefully, because Sawyer's obviously even more wasted than he thought. "And I don't want to fuck you, Sawyer."

"Yeah, you do. But you ain't gonna get to, cause you ain't gonna win." Sawyer gives one of his irritating smirks. It makes Jack want to hit him in the face, but beating him at poker will have to do.

"Sawyer, I've won every game and I'll win the next one. Don't bet anything you're not prepared to part with." He knows he should just walk away, but it would feel like backing down. Far better to beat him, and then see him humiliated when he can't pay up. Jack shuffles the cards, not trusting Sawyer to deal.

Sawyer frowns at his losing hand, spread out on the suitcase lid. It shouldn't come as a surprise, since he's lost consistently all evening, but still he stares at the cards, in apparent disbelief. Jack drums his fingers on his knee, waiting for him to quit stalling and admit that he has nothing. Ultimately, he'll accept an IOU from Sawyer, maybe make him do some work around the camp for a change, but he'll let him sweat for a while before he gives him that out.

Sawyer looks at the ground, chewing the side of his lip. The sight of him, the tension and struggle being played out on his face, is like a vindication, everything Jack had hoped for. Sawyer is going to be forced to concede that it's all been bluster, that not only has he lost again, but, like the con artist that he is, he can't pay up.

Sawyer drags his gaze from the ground up to Jack's face, and can't meet his eyes. He picks up one of the discarded bottles and drains it of the last few drops of scotch, turning the little bottle over in his hand before throwing it into the darkness that surrounds them. His palms rub the faded knees of his jeans, as he turns his face towards the jungle they can't see.

Between one moment and the next, the gloating delight becomes tainted with something less comfortable. Sawyer thinks he wants this, thinks that he's sitting here waiting for him to surrender his body. It makes him uneasy; he doesn't want to end up feeling like the bad guy here.

"Sawyer," he starts, trying to find words that will offer them both the least humiliating way out of this situation, but nothing comes to him.

At the sound of his voice Sawyer stumbles to his feet and starts to pull off his clothes. Jack watches, dumbstruck. Even clumsy with drink it takes little time to remove a tee shirt, jeans and boots. Sawyer stands, naked, swaying slightly. Looking at him, Jack feels a disconcerting frisson of arousal. It's to do with power, seeing an enemy brought down and made vulnerable, nothing more than that. He regrets having let this contest go so far.

He stands, with a little difficulty, picks up Sawyer's clothes and holds them out to him. Sawyer looks down, studying the sand at his feet, hands by his sides.

"Take them and put them on."

Sawyer hesitates a moment longer, and then he looks up at Jack through his hair with an exultant smile.

"Didn't think you could go through with it."

Furious, barely able to believe he has been conned into pity by that charade of reticence, Jack throws the clothes onto the sand. He stares Sawyer in the face, but far from looking intimidated, he's elated. He thinks he has won.

"Lie down."

Burning with anger, it's still a bluff he won’t be able to sustain for long, but it's worth it, just for the moment when Sawyer's face changes, doubt creeping in.

"We both know you ain't gonna."

"Yeah, I am."

Jack waits him out, with a deadpan expression, until Sawyer shrugs, and drops down onto the airplane blanket he's been sitting on, stretching out on his side. Jack had imagined him lying conveniently face down and eyes hidden, not propped on his elbow, watching, daring him to do it. Determined not to be outmanouvered, he steps over Sawyer and stands behind him on the blanket, feet pulling the material taut. Sawyer tenses, but doesn't look round to see what Jack's doing. For a while, neither of them move or speak.

"You gonna keep your clothes on?"

Sawyer’s voice is steady, if thin.

"I won. I can do anything I like. If you wanted to set conditions, you should have done it when you made the bet."

He's watching Sawyer, so he sees the effect that this has on him, but in a second his face hardens.

"Whatever, you needta to use this, or I ain't playin'."

Sawyer reaches into the pocket of his discarded jeans and holds up his fist. When he opens it there's something in his palm; Sawyer is staring straight ahead, waiting. Jack takes it and brings it up close enough to read what it says; lip balm with sunscreen. Keeping his movements methodical and unhurried, he takes off his shirt, giving Sawyer time to lose his nerve and tell him to stop. He sits down, removing his shoes carefully. Eventually he pulls off his shorts, glad that at least Sawyer's not able to watch him. He toys with the lip balm tube, hoping Sawyer's nerve will break.

Sawyer casts a scathing glance over his shoulder.

"Want me to give you instructions? Draw a diagram?"

"No." He shoves Sawyer's back, angry, and wanting nothing more than to be rid of him. How can he manage to get the upper hand in a situation as demeaning as this? Sawyer takes the push as direction, bending one leg up and leaning forward, steadying himself on his forearm. Watching him, Jack feels that he's in charge again, and for the first time since Sawyer stripped naked, there's a sexual heat to it. To prolong the moment, he squeezes some of the lip balm onto his fingers, sliding it around between thumb and forefinger, while Sawyer waits, prone and exposed.

"Well?"

Sawyer's impatient tone is a reality check. There is nothing in it that suggests trepidation.

Jack lays one hand on Sawyer's hip, and pushes, making him roll over further. It's a vulnerable position, but his profile, head resting on his arm, is still composed. Even now, Sawyer’s sure Jack can't do this; that he's so constrained by his own integrity that he won’t do him any harm, that Sawyer can take advantage of him.

Grasping Sawyer's hip so he can't move, Jack slides two slicked fingers between his buttocks and finds the tight ring of muscle. Pushing his fingers in, defying resistance, he is gratified by Sawyer's choked gasp, his clenched fists. Enough to pull them out and do it again, harder. The swallowed cry of pain resonates through Jack, emotionally satisfying, physically arousing. Sawyer grabs his forearm and stops him before he can do it a third time.

Jack needs several breaths before he can speak evenly.

"Sawyer, if you weren't prepared to do it, you shouldn't have put it up as stakes."

This is the moment Jack’s been waiting for. Sawyer's nerve has failed, but Jack doesn't want the moral victory anymore. It's not enough. He wants everything he was promised.

"I said fuck. Not rape." Sawyer's fingers are digging into his flesh, but the words make him draw back. "If it hurts it hurts, but you don't gotta make it."

He's planning on going through with it, on letting Jack do this.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

Jack is pretty sure that they both know that's not true. He had wanted to hurt Sawyer, had wanted to do it again. But that was when all he was going to do was push him till until he reneged on his bet. If Sawyer is going to honor it, and if Jack is going to collect, it's enough that he's submitting. Jack can't justify causing him pain.

This time he coats his fingers thickly with the lip balm, and insinuates them with some care, searching Sawyer's face, taking his time. He can tell that Sawyer hates it, but it's not unendurable, and he's not going to tell Jack to stop. He looks down and watches, enthralled, the sight of his fingers moving, forcing Sawyer's body open, and feels himself harden. Withdrawing his fingers, with some regret, he waits until Sawyer realizes he's expected to do something. He hauls himself stiffly around, not quite onto his belly. His fingers clutch the shirt he's using to pillow his head.

Jack crawls over him and then hesitates.

Sawyer turns his head without looking him in the face.

"Make it quick."

He's still trying to make terms and qualify his surrender.

Jack shoves in and hears the hiss of Sawyer's breath between closed teeth. He sets a pace that suits him, and lets Sawyer find whatever way of dealing with it that he can. Sawyer rolls his shoulders, and it feels like being shrugged off, so he tightens his fingers on Sawyer's hip, limiting his freedom.

When it's over, neither of them will be able to forget these moments. It doesn't need to be said, it will always be there between them. He already knows how good it's going to feel when Sawyer tries that look on him one more time. The one with the smirk and the mocking eyes, the one that reminds him of the boys he knew when he was growing up, who studied how to win fights and girls instead of getting straight As. He had known that in the world he'd inherit academic prowess and professional excellence would be his ticket to success, and that those arrogant boys would end up fixing his car and cleaning his pool. It hadn't helped him then.

These weeks on the island felt like he'd regressed to that world of fraught adolescent uncertainty. His skills were valued, but he was too aware of everything that he couldn't do, all the many, many ways in which he was failing. And Sawyer, with his myriad flaws and weaknesses, had watched him failing; he'd strutted and swaggered and conned people out of their possessions as they gazed at him, in fear, or admiration. In the jungle, this lowlife opportunist had come into his own, cheating and charming his way to a life of ease and pretty girls, and taking it as his due.

And now he is lying, legs spread, under Jack, unable to stop a tiny sound escaping his throat at every thrust. He is a conquest, not a winner, in this, or in life. The thought of it pushes Jack into losing control, fucking Sawyer hard and fast, until he comes, with a triumphant release than feels drawn from every cell of his body.

Resting against Sawyer would suggest an intimacy that isn't there, so he pulls out, hearing Sawyer curse him bitterly, and throws himself down on the blanket.

"You couldn't have lasted another minute?"

Jack lies there catching his breath. He'd never considered this, that it could give Sawyer any pleasure. Even so, it doesn't mean anything. It's just an automatic physiological response. It certainly doesn't put him under any obligation. On the other hand, he can be magnanimous in victory, as long as it doesn't lead to any misunderstanding.

Sawyer's still lying turned away from him, face down, one leg bent. As an experiment, Jack puts his hand on the back of Sawyer's thigh. It's a perfunctory gesture that doesn't commit him to anything. Sawyer's breath hitches and he tenses at the touch; it gives Jack a heady rush of power that rivals anything he got from hurting him. He keeps his hand there, unmoving, while he considers his options. Jerking him off is unthinkable, and lacks the overtones of dominance and invasion that made fucking him about so much more than sex. He moves his fingers upwards, still just a casual brush of skin, until they reach the crease at the top of his thigh, slide round till he can feel the femoral pulse racing. That solidifies his decision. He slides his fingers inwards, not roughly, but without hesitation, and pushes into Sawyer's unresisting body. This shouldn't be difficult, all it needs is a working knowledge of anatomy. When his probing fingers reach the right spot Sawyer gives an astonished little sob, and he repeats the motion, stroking into him in a rhythm that feels like fucking him all over again. There's an erotic charge from doing this, and listening to Sawyer's breathing getting ragged, watching his fingers rake and close on fistfuls of sand, he can't remember why he'd ever thought it was a bad idea. Doing this to Sawyer, reducing him to helpless desperation is intoxicating, and suffused with arousal and power he rubs Sawyer's back, feeling the play of muscle and sinew as he writhes beneath his hands. Sawyer’s movements are becoming erratic, so he twists his fingers, driving them hard into him until Sawyer's body clenches in a wrenching spasm of ecstasy. He draws up his knees, groaning like he's in pain, and Jack presses his fingers in and down, making Sawyer shake his head and cry out as he falls heavily onto the blanket.

Watching Sawyer lie collapsed and panting beside him feels like winning again. Giving pleasure is a different nuance of satisfaction from taking it, but it feels good, even if it's with Sawyer. Lying there, gazing up at the stars with Sawyer, his sides heaving like an animal run to ground, Jack thinks that at last something here has gone right for him.

After a time Sawyer's breathing becomes softer and slower. Unable to think of a single thing to say to him, Jack begins to fumble through the debris for his clothes. He shakes the sand out of his shorts and puts them on first. It's not until he's trying to tie his shoelaces that Sawyer looks up to see what he's doing.

"Somewhere ya gotta be, Doc?" His voice is low and rough.

"Uh, no, just wanted to get dressed." It sounds gauche, and he turns and gives Sawyer a quick smile to compensate.

Sawyer grabs his own jeans, but only searches through them till he finds his cigarettes. He takes one and puts it between his lips. Offers them to Jack, who takes one, and lets Sawyer light them both.

He sees something too grim to be called a smile stretch the corners of Sawyer's mouth.

"What?"

"Never thought you had it in you, Doc."

Jack ducks his head, embarrassed. "It was a first for me. I'm guessing you've done that before, though."

"Not since I got big enough to have other options."

He looks at Sawyer, trying to see if it's an obscure joke he hasn't got.

Sawyer eyes him sidelong, through tousled hair, and exhaled smoke, lowered lashes hiding his thoughts. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and examines it.

"You don't believe me."

"No, I do."

"Don't matter." Sawyer smiles at his cigarette. "I wouldn't believe me neither."

Jack frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again, and just sits there watching Sawyer.

"What?" Sawyer asks after a silence in which both of them do nothing but smoke.

"Why do that? Why offer sex as stakes?"

Sawyer's eyes widen slightly, before he recovers his enigmatic mask, takes another draw from his cigarette, and blows the smoke out slowly.

"I wanted to win the game."

 


End file.
